Authors: Tom Winton
Each morning, as we headed out to the blue water, I'd do my best to hide my resentment toward the day's party. Grudgingly, like most of the rest of the world's workers, I masked my true feelings.
Nevertheless, I loved being out on the ocean. The smell of warm sea air always seemed to heal my spirits. I loved the boundless gifts Mother Ocean offered when her mood was benevolent. Gifts like the unexpected appearance of a huge manta ray rising to the water's surface like a half-ton butterfly, its broad wings sweeping ever so gracefully, so daintily. And the sudden sight of skyrocketing kingfish, surface feeding, lifting off from schools of baitfish, looking like so many electrified silver rockets as the sun reflects off their sides. Then there's the pastel-colored dolphins that always surprise you even though you're looking for them near the floating lines of sargassum weed. The swinging bill of a lit-up sailfish is a magnificent sight as it rises to a flat line behind the boat. But, the thrill of all thrills was when a rare blue marlin, big as a full-size Cessna, literally flies out of the water after feeling the hook's sting.
Silently I always rooted for these majestic fish every time a customer put the hook to one. Always I'd savor the relief I felt when a sail, a dolphin, or even a lucky barracuda, would jump clear of the water and throw the hook, free once again to roam the ink-blue waters of the Stream. At such times I'd be so very thankful there were still a few things in this upside-down world that big bucks could not buy, still a handful of people, things, emotions and experiences that have no price tag. But what I didn't know was that one night after two years of mollycoddling Captain Fred's charters, fate was going to bestow one such priceless gift on me.
Chapter 19
November 8th, 1974 was a Friday. Though it has nothing to do with why I remember that date, we made a banner catch that day. An early cool front had pushed a huge school of kingfish down to Fort Lauderdale and all that day, out over the second reef, we loaded the fish box with these oversized members of the mackerel family. The seas were heavy, the bite did not stop and neither did the four carpet salesmen who'd won the charter in a company contest. The trip was fun but chaotic. Eight continuous hours of beer guzzling (them, not me), joyous yelping, tomfoolery and tangled lines. Rough as it was outside, and with all the beer they drank, it was no small miracle none of these guys got sick. Soused as they were by the time we tied up, I didn't think they'd be able to find their car, let alone remember to tip yours truly. But they did. After I'd cleaned and iced down their catch, which was no small task, they came through big-time. Fifty smackers.
Watching the four of them do a wobbly crab-walk across busy A1A, making their way to the Yankee Clipper's bar, I wondered what had screwed up their mobility more, the beer or all those hours of pitching and rolling in five foot seas. They somehow made it across the street alive and I merrily began my ritualistic duties of cleaning the boat and all the expensive tackle. Finishing up as the red Florida sun set behind a forest of sailboat masts, I locked the cabin, double-checked it and was out of there. I hadn't had a beer since the previous weekend and by now I was ready! I planned on having one hell of a night, even if I was going out alone.
Full of Friday anticipation, I drove to my apartment and showered away all the salt and kingfish scales. I got into some clean faded Levis and a laundered yellow button-down shirt that enhanced my fisherman's tan nicely. I slipped my bare feet into my deck shoes, slapped on some Brut, grabbed two bananas from the top of the fridge and was out the door. I was winging it alone because Jimmy had gone off with a Dunkin' Donut's waitress on a three-day trip to the 'Mousetrap' up in Orlando.
Scarfing down the bananas, I cruised back down A1A in the darkness. Radio semi-loud, some geek DJ pitching 'deals' on new Oldsmobiles, I flowed toward the beach with the Friday night traffic. Man, I thought, am I ready! I had that urge to get snockered that's always irreversible once my mind's made up. I hoped to get to the Elbo Room early enough to get a stool at the bar. Yeah, the 'Elbo Room', that notorious hangout of spring breaks past, and 'Where the Boys Are' fame.
It was still early when I arrived. About a dozen people were at the bar, mostly leftovers from happy hour; a couple of early-birds like myself. I plopped on a stool near the front window and ordered a brew, and another, and another. I watched the tourists and characters parading by outside on the sidewalk as I pounded them down.
About an hour went by before a couple of other mates I knew from the marina came in. We talked about tides, winds, tackle and recent catches. They'd had a few before they left their boat and were now downing straight shots of Jack, getting pretty loose real quick. And I wasn't far behind. They were going to a party up in Pompano and, although I turned down their invite, I jumped when they asked if I wanted to do a couple of doobies. Though the place was starting to get crowded, I gladly relinquished my barstool and went outside with them.
When I floated back into the barroom, roughly twenty minutes later, the music seemed much louder and more intense. But I'm sure it wasn't. The place had become more crowded and livelier. I went to the bar, bought my umpteenth bottle of Miller Lite. With nowhere to sit, I shuffled tentatively around and through pods of bodies over to the Wurlitzer. I leaned a hip on it. The floor rolled beneath my feet like old waves. The heavy bass blasting from the juke sent exaggerated vibrations up and down my rubberized skeleton. I tried to appear straighter than I was but it wasn't easy with my brain beer-sopped and my reflexes decelerated from the marijuana. Methodically I checked out all the fluff in the crowd, half-focusing on a couple of good-lookers with black hair. But my eyes kept pulling back to a girl with hair of different color. She was sitting very erect, like a model, with two girlfriends at a table near the bar.
Fairly certain I'd caught her stealing a few glances in my direction, my interest piqued even more. But with all the people roaming around, coming, going, dancing, horsing around, I could only catch short, intermittent glimpses of her. Her chestnut hair was long, thick, brushed back like a lion's mane. In the bar's dim light, during my next blurry glimpse, I was able to focus on her a bit longer. I noticed she had an extraordinarily pleasant face. As I was taking it in, two guys approached her table. Then some people blocked my line of vision again.
'Shit,'
I thought out loud
'I can't see her now.'
Damn, she looks interesting. Get the hell out of the way. Craning my benumbed neck just a bit, I tried to find her again.
There was another break in the crowd. I slowly straightened my neck, a delayed reflex.
Can't let her think I'm easy. Don't want to look like I'm gawking at her.
But, then I saw her nod her head at the guy rapping to her, and a small smile lit her face beautifully.
I thought for sure it was too late now. The guy probably said the right things, pressed the right buttons, connected with her. Surely that's why she smiled. But then she pivoted her head quickly, directly at me this time. Our eyes locked for just a moment before a biker and his mama started grinding away, blocking our line of vision again. I still remember the song that came on the jukebox at that exact moment, 'To Love Somebody', by the Bee Gees.
I saw her making her way through the crowd, heading in my direction.
She came up to the juke and started perusing the selections. With considerable effort, I lifted my eyelids. Trying to be inconspicuous, I took in this girl as she fed a couple of quarters into the machine. Very pretty, I thought, in a 'milk and honey' sort of way. That long, long hair, whooshed back the way it was, added just the slightest hint of recklessness, making her quite provocative. Sort of like the Breck Girl in a risqué mood. She had generous curves in all the right places and a tiny waist that accentuated them. I was struck by her waist. I'd never seen one so trim on a women whose eyes (with her heels on) were almost even with my own.
Her long legs stilted real high, she leaned over the front of the jukebox which allowed her a better look at the selections and me a better look at her solid, half-moon hips and up-tilted behind. Her denim jeans, stretched to the limit, looked like they'd been tattooed on her. Up top she was a little bigger than average, which never hurts. As she leaned a little farther forward to hit the selection buttons, her back flexed, her tube top rode up just a bit further. I found this to be quite sensual and tantalizing.
I took a swallow of beer then, with my tongue all loose and clumsy, I turned to her and managed a line, the weakest of all lame lines. "Heyyyahhh, you come here often? .... I don't think I've seen you before." I followed up those profound words with a lopsided goofy smile.
Despite my lackluster performance, she lifted her head and turned to me, our eyes meeting up close for the first time. She made a quick assessment of my face with these kind looking, outsized eyes that sparkled like green jewels. Remaining poker-faced, except for those eyes that seemed incapable of deception, she answered my stupid question with, "Maybe I've come here once too often."
Instantly I took offense. I'm always quick to take offense because most of the time I go out of my way not to give any. I tried to conjure something nasty to say to parry her snotty remark. But before I could, her lips spread into this magnificent warm smile, an infectious smile like that of a loving mother's, an inviting smile that spoke without words, just like Theresa's used to. It said, I've been looking for you … waiting for you … for a long, long time.
Completely disarmed, my emotions skidded to a stop just short of revenge then pulled back towards civility. Though half-bagged, I still had enough sense to realize some be-bop snappy line just wouldn't cut it this time. I had a strange feeling this wasn't going to be just another one night stand. I sensed she was different, maybe even special.
That quick, I warmed up to this young woman. I didn't even know her name yet. Hell, we'd only exchanged a few words. But still, it was almost like six years earlier, when for the first time in the hallway at Saint Agnes', I saw Theresa. There had been many women since Theresa, but none of them quite like this one standing next to me now. I felt a tinge of hope, a feeling long gone from my repertoire of emotions. I remember thinking, maybe this is the one, the one who can bring me back to life.
Without stumbling on my words, I managed to ask, "Can I buy you a drink?"
"Thanks, but no thanks.”
She punched in her last selection. Neither of us said a thing. She turned back to me again, looked right through my eyes, giving me an opportunity. I wanted to say something but I was at a loss for words. Meaningful words, anyway. The condition I was in sure as hell wasn't helping any. Our brief intimate connection was weakening. I could feel it. She felt it.
Damn! What's the matter with me? Why can't I open my big mouth? I think she's gonna just walk off now? What about that smile she just gave me? Maybe she always smiles that way to everybody.
Maybe it wasn't custom made for me.
The smooth continuity of our brief encounter seemed to have run its course when suddenly her face lit again. I thought she was going back to her friends but she didn't. She looked back into my baby-blues and said, "I don't feel like another drink. But … I wouldn't mind taking a walk on the beach, get a little fresh air maybe. You look like you could use a little."
Bingo! Wowwwee! Shazam! She wants to take a walk! Even if she's not Miss Right, who knows, maybe we'll at least get it on, down on the beach somewhere.
There it was again, that irrepressible, primitive male libido at work, always willing, always ready to engage in the act that propagates the species.
But this wouldn't be a one-night-fling. Just like when I first met Theresa, I didn't even think of trying any funny stuff. All we did was walk and walk and walk in the cool night air for several miles on the sand, clear past Hugh Taylor Birch State Park where the beach changes from public to private, all the way to where Lauderdale's condo canyon intrudes the coastline, where so many characterless concrete towers barricade the ocean view and defiantly scrape at the stars. Just before we came up to them, we turned around and headed back toward the Elbo Room.
Though the two day nor'easter had by now lessened to a comfortable breeze, there were still some leftover waves energizing the surf. Large but half-hearted rollers broke lazily along the surf line, intermittently drowning out the man-made clamor along route A1A and the motel row adjacent to it. On the way back we took our shoes off and sloshed through ankle-deep seawater as it washed foam onto the sand.